Cara Sage and the Bikers Blade
by oshkoshlife
Summary: Cara Sage is a girl, coming of age in Detroit. A city made more dangerous, by all the things she doesn't know. The arrival of a mysterious letter, a jail sentence for her father, and visits from detectives thrusts Cara into a war. Will a new school help Cara escape a family secret? Can she survive the the world her father fought to shield her from?
1. Chapter 1: The Knock

The Knock

A hard knock on the door makes a higher pitched sound than a battering ram. I am able to differentiate the detectives behind the door by the shape of their hand. Detective Jones contacts the metal with his knuckles, making a softer sound. Detective Red catapults his whole arm, commanding our attention with a slow dull pound. Today's disparate attempt is unfamiliar. This knock is strangely polite. The thud on the door is loud enough to hear, but not annoying enough to ignore. The dissipating sound of a conscience neighbor. But our neighbors are rude. No hard breathing or wandering flip flops on the concrete. Just patient silence.

I lean around the living room corner to spy on the unwanted guest. The usual speech is marked by a slight accent. His clean cut suit says television cop, not the plain clothes of a local detective. Before my grandmother closes the door, he maneuvers his long fingers around the door to present his business card. The outdated practice has yet to sway my grandmother's hardened face.

I shuffle in my ankle high boots to the bay window, where I am exposed by the light uncovered by curtain. I lift the collar of my father's biker jacket to sniff the beard wax and motor oil embedded in the leather. The smell ignites the memory of my father ducking his head under the roof of a black police car. My squinting eyes trap water inside my tear ducts. A surge anger escapes the knot in my stomach and a fire bursts out the hood of the detective's car. The detective calmly stops mid stride, and raises his hand to extinguish the flames, before pivoting his head towards my firmly positioned figure inside the bay window. I do not understand. Why did his car burst into flames? How does a man extinguish a fire by raising a hand?


	2. Chapter 2: The Letter

The Letter

My grandmother calls me by none of my given or inherited names. I am disagreeably referred to as "Child". She hits me in the back of my head with yesterday's mail. Stopping me from staring at the empty curve where the detective car was parked. No evidence of anything usual. Grandmother shoves a letter into the elbow of my folded arms before asking me the agenda for today. I assume her emotions are recovering from today's visit as she stomps towards the kitchen.

l grab the wrinkled envelope from out the creases of the jacket. I scowl at the script that spells my government name," Cara Maya Sage". All three names are composed of four letters, much like cursed words. Cara is the feminine compromise of my father's favorite tale, the story of Caradoc. My middle name is an ode to my mother's favorite poet. I am the caged bird that never learned to sing. Sage is the family that does not exist. I am not entrusted with the name of my Grandmother. The woman who raised my mother prefers to be addressed as Ms Johnson. She hesitantly allows me to refer to her as Sister. Sister Johnson is not a substitute for the man that raised me. Dirk "Dagger" Sage is my father and only true caregiver.

I blame my oval face on my father's irish heritage. I inherited the Sage family green eyes. My mother blessed me with high cheekbones to frame my timid smile. My caramel complexion is a mixture between my father's porcelain skin and my mother's coffee tone. My african roots grew my bushy hair and long limbs. I intimidate other girls with height, and surprise boys with my strength. My unusual high intelligence for 14 years of age fuels my constant curiosity.

I slide my father's dagger from out the guard in my black leather boot. The sharp tip arches into a double edged wide blade. The blade curves into a skinnier neck. A unique compass seals the flat surface at the top. A white bone and light wood handle separates the weighted butt from the matching gold hand guard. The tan and brown grooves of the bone make the dagger easy to grip with my sweaty palms. I suspiciously slice open the envelope and carefully skim the two page letter.

 _Dear Ms. Sage:_

 _Congratulations! We are pleased to offer you admission to Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the fall semester. Please locate the enclosed list of books and equipment. We will be expecting your arrival on September 5. Again, warmest congratulations on you admission._


	3. Chapter 3: The Wandmaker

The Wandmaker

The bang of a forearm on the door interrupts my reading. The accustomed rudeness of a neighbor. We are entertaining an unusual amount of visitors this morning. This visitor disturbs my grandmother's morning routine of coffee. I do not dare to answer the door. This is not my house.

The door swings wide and slams behind a tall man with wild grey hair. Wolf, my father's motorcycle club brother, invades the foray. He disregards my grandmother's short figure. My grandmother states her disapproval by returning to her coffee in the kitchen. Wolf ignores her actions and peers his eyes over his blacked out shades to me.

He claps and snaps his hulky hands to say, "Problem Child! Let's go! We have work to do."

He snatches the bizarre letter from out my grasp. I sheath my father's dagger and follow without challenge to his bike in the street.

"Did you read the letter?" Wolf asks.

"Sort of." I say, confused.

"Good. Here. I'll explain more when we get there?" Wolf shoves a backpack into my chest and points his index finger to the helmet on the seat.

"Where's there?" I punch the top of the helmet onto my head after swinging the backpack onto my shoulders.

"The Wandmaker." He smiles.


	4. Chapter 4: The Talk

The Talk

I feel the summer heat bouncing off the asphalt as legs grip the seat of Wolf's cruiser. Wolf gracefully swerves to dodge potholes and parked cars. He only yields to the police car that speeds through a red traffic light. Detroit is a strange city. We pass ugly houses and street signs with pretty names that end in lawn before stopping in front of a square brick building with a rusted garage door. Black steel gates curl and twist over the old lead windows. The double pane glass is cracked. The ones above the steel front entrance are replaced by block glass. The building looks too abandoned to have anything worth stealing inside.

Wolf turns of the engine, "your daddy was a wizard. That makes you a witch. You ever had something happen that you can't explain. It just something you can feel. Going through your whole body. That's magic. Magic is real! And you have the power to control it, harness it, mold it, into whatever you want. Whatever your imagination can think up. Of course there are rules, but you know us. We ain't the type to for rules. Just don't get caught."

"First rule..." he coughs.

"Don't get caught." I interrupt.

"Right...second rule; no underage magic outside of school." He warns.

"Or, don't get caught caught!" I wink.

"No. Yeah. That's an important rule. That one you have to follow," he looks serious. "So that letter. You'll start a new school come next week."

"Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry"

"Yeah. To learn magic. That's what the books on your back are for," he points to the bag as I adjust the load to be more comfortable.

"Now, every witch needs a wand? That's how you'll control your magic."

"Are you a witch?" I look at him wide eyed. "Where's your wand?"

"Its wizard! Problem child, you ask a lot of questions," he smirks. "Go! Go inside and get yourself a wand."

I struggle to swing my leg over the leather seat with the heavy weight of the backpack. I walk towards the mysterious building.


	5. Chapter 5: The Carriage House

The Carriage House

The building is twice as high as it appears on the outside. In the 1950's garage victorian oil lanterns float a foot under a metal ceiling, dangerously next to giant wood beams. A stamped tin sign reads "The Carriage House". Curiously enough, the inside houses all sorts of vehicles; motorcycles, cars, but no brooms. The cement floors and brick walls are strangely clean for a place with all styles of vehicles, of various ages. Pistons spring out the engines of flying cars with no hydraulic lifts. Smoke fills the room, but it doesn't come from the lanterns. The smoke puffs out the cigar of a dapper looking man behind a counter located in the back. His eyes are grey and match his greased back silver hair. He models a boyish face, so one cannot guess his age. He sports a dark grey button up under a black vest, with a red handkerchief in the breast pocket.

"Welcome Problem Child!" He raises his arms.

"My name's Cara!" I approvingly cross my arms.

"Well Cara, I'm the Wandmaker. We don't use names around here. They're bad for business. My customers prefer discretion. Bloody Taboo Curse. Never know who's listening! So... Wolf says you need a wand. And since I owe your mother a favor..."

"You knew my mother?" I ask.

"Yea, and your father." He responds. He pulls out a torn in half photograph of a more youthful Dirk Dagger Sage standing in front a grey haired man. The man is wearing her father's prized leather jacket.

"Who's that!" I shout.

The Wandmaker raises an eyebrow. "Your grandfather! Rodrick Alpha Sage. Famed President of the Winged Horseman!"

"Oh." Embarrassed, I reach into the silk pocket of the leather jacket and pulls out a worn photograph of my mother holding me when I was a restless toddler. I sit it on the counter to discover the torn edge perfectly matches the photograph of my father.

The Wandmaker pulls from behind the counter an object.

"What's that?" I point to the straight wooden object the Wandmaker places on the counter.

He rolls his eyes, "it's a wand."

"It's a stick!" I snap back.

"It's mahogany!" the Wandmaker clenches his fists.

"It's a pretty stick!" I laugh, still unimpressed.

"Pick it up and wave it around." groans the Wandmaker. I follow his order. Nothing happens.

"Are you sure you're a witch?" smirks the Wandmaker.

I stare at him and mumbled under my breathe, "Maker of Sticks." I flick my fingers open so the wand drops on the counter.

The Wandmaker picks up the wand and gently taps the two torn pieces of photograph, bonding them together. The people in the newly mended photo begin to move; my younger self wiggles, my mother and father laugh as my grandfather's wrapped arm around them spills liquid out of a drinking horn.

"Wands are antennas. They amplify a wizard's or witch's magic. They are not the source themselves. They allow one to focus it. Magic without a wand is uncontrollably dangerous. Disastrous. Stupid."

Without looking behind him, the Wandmaker points the wand to the square cubbies along the wall. The cubes are full of boxes. Some boxes are elaborately decorated, while others are painfully plain. One by one he guides each box to the counter, where it opens to reveal a wand. The wands are walnut, rosewood, white oak, and cherry. They stretch to seven and a half, nine and five sixteenths, eleven and three quarters, and upwards. I repeat his order of picking each wand up and thrashing them in the air. Nothing happens.

"Sorry kid. No wand. The wand chooses the wizard. You're not well...well liked!"

"Ain't you a wandmaker? Can't you make me a wand!" I wine.

"That ain't that easy kid. You'll need a core. Something special. Something magical, like from a magic creature. Cores are hard to come by."

A loud noise in the form of a hiss is heard. Off to the side is a waiting area; composed of a brown leather couch, a quarter vending machine, juke box, a stained wood coffee table, and an aquarium housing a restless snake. The Wandmaker gives me a suspicious glare.

"Lucky for you that's the family business. I'm sure Wolf can work something out."

The Wandmaker motions his hand to dismiss me. He raises a newspaper in front of his face to say the conversation is finished. "Man Hunt Continues!" The heading of the newspaper, the Daily Prophet, abruptly diverts my attention to a distant memory. I shut my eyes to relieve my head from the weird sensation.


	6. Chapter 6: The Morning News

The Morning News

 _I stare at the beautiful brown skin woman that is my mother. Her presence is more beautiful than the wrinkled worn photograph. "Have you seen the new wand restrictions?"_

 _My short limbs are thrashing between the belt of a booster seat. With hazy eyes I turn to look up at my father. Dirk Dagger Sage lowers the Daily Prophet newspaper he is holding to address his wife, "Poet, you never needed a wand." He folds the edition closed and slides towards Poet._

" _I'm not worried about me. No one with a record will be able to practice magic! How are they supposed to protect themselves from Death Eaters!"_

" _That's over there, not here!"_

" _Not for long. You know they have sympathizers, who are just as dangerous!"_

" _Wolf will be fine. He's able to protect himself."_

" _What about the rest of the Horsemen?" Poet points to newspaper._

 _My father distracts himself from the conversation by turning to me, a rambunctious toddler trying to wiggle out of a high chair. "Look at you! Your pure magic!"_

 _Poet throws the newspaper, hitting Dagger in the head. I innocently laugh hard. Dagger picks up the newspaper, sighs, then reads the headline out loud._

"' _Magical Congress Fears Death Eaters in America.' It's just some scare tactic so they can pass new laws. They been waiting for the right moment forever!" He balls up the newspaper and throw it in the trash. "Score!" holding arms in the air. I laugh again._

The flashback fades and I am standing in the carriage house once again.


	7. Chapter 7: The Wandless Wizard

The Wandless Wizard

I wobble with the backpack tugging at shoulders toward Wolf and his motorcycle still deep in thought. Wolf puts down the book he is reading.

"Here. Put the book in you bag! 'The Power of Pureblood: portrait of America's Most Famous Wizarding Families. Author Marcus Cornell'" He slams the book into my chest. He smirks revenge.

"Why don't you have a wand?" His smirk transforms into a blank stare as my eyes adjust to the harsh sunlight of late summer.

"Uh…" Wolf groans. "I don't have a license."

"Why no license?" I unzip the bag to drop the book inside.

"I broke the rule of no underage magic, or...I got caught," he crosses his arms taking a defensive position.

"Doing what?" I smile softly to gently ask. Wolf is a master at never fully answering a question. He redirects the conversation.

"Where's your wand? Lets see it!"

"I need a core" I sigh. I am defeated.

"You Sages have always been picky!" Wolf laughs at attempt.

"So are you a witch or not?"

"Wizard! Yes, I am a wizard. I am not a squib. I just can't do magic that requires a wand."

"Your father's a wizard?"

"No. He's a jerk."

"Your mother's a wizard?"

"A witch! No. She's not."

"So how are you a wizard?" Wolf rolls his eyes. "My mother's was a witch!" I ask.

"Yes, a powerful one. Hop on. I have an idea where to find you a core. Here."

He hands me a pair of dark sunglasses to put over my eyes and divert my questions. I dare to stare at the sun.

"Sweet! I can see stars!"

"Nice magic trick, from a guy with no wand!" Wolf laughs.


	8. Chapter 8: The Corner Store

The Corner Store

Wolf stops his motorcycle in front of a grey cinder block building with a mural of two sleeping dragons. I stagger with my backpack behind Wolf as we follow the sidewalk to an industrial pipe. Wolf rotates a red wheel attached to the water main. The pipe growls white steam. The blue scales that armor the dragons shift. Their nostrils blow multicolor smoke. The lids separate to shine yellow diamond eyes. The bricks folds to reveal a massive circular door. I hear the clanking of locks click as the metal panels slide apart. I purse Wolf past the door frame."We're going to the back where the freezers are." Wolf states.

I wander past dizzying displays. The wood floor flexes under my boots. The maze of shelves rotate if I stand in one place too long. The swinging signs shaped as arrows point to adjoining sections. The cursive type reads; gloop, roots, weeds, confections. The brewing powder is next to sorceress sugar. The phoenix tears are in Pharmacy. The gargoyle oil is in Beauty. The canned fresh mountain air is in Toiletry. Boxes shake off the ledge of wood platforms. Wax tops seal tinted bottles of bubbling liquids in the Potions aisle. Smoke seeps from mason jars under the Poison sign. Neon lights wrap the ceiling. Barrels line the outer brick walls. My head swivels side to side so I don't neglect a single label. I assume this is the place where wizards do their shopping.

I am careful not to break ceramic jugs as I follow Wolf to the back. A caldron of dragon's milk is on sale. Wolf opens the freezer. He stretches his arm pass the beverages labeled rocket juice, pumpkin fizz, and golden cranapple soda. He pulls a small yellow cardboard crate skillfully around the goose eggs. I notice at the white ribbon with black lettering spells out ButterBeer. Wolf motions his head. "Let's head to checkout."

I scoot by a table. I cannot see the legs because of the mounds of products surrounding it. Wicker baskets struggle to hold prickly pops, jumpin jollies, monster taffy, fudge, chewing gum, moon rocks, silver tongued sours, sunflower seeds, nut brittle, cinnamon crackers, candied fruit sticks, and deep fried cookies. Newspapers sit on metal racks at the edge. I recognize the photo on The Daily Prophet, but I am introduced to the old english letters of Wayne County's Witches' Weekly.

A clerk stands ready behind a wood counter. I watch Wolf slam the Butter Beer on the counter. He grabs a bag of snacks from one of the stands.

"My favorite, hot dragon heart strings." Wolf speaks to the clerk. "Let me get a Winged White Whiskey, a Black Sage Cigarillo, an ultraviolet mason jar, and a cup. Thanks."

The clerk responds. "7 Galleons, 1 Sickles, 8 Knuts"

Wolf exchanges assortment of metal nuggets for the items on the counter. The gold framed portrait over the clerk's shoulder speaks. "Thanks for visiting Perry's Party Store, where you get more!"

I look behind the clerk to see the painting of an older gentleman wearing a bowtie. One hand leans on a replica of the counter, his other hand waves at me.

"Dad!" Embarrassed, the clerk coughs. "Thanks. Come again."

The vault door we entered appears to my right. Glass guards a network of gears, bolts and coils of the inside door. Wolf stuffs the whiskey and cigarillo in his vest. He nods to the clerk before extending the carton of Butter Beer towards me, "Put this in your pack."

A silent glare voices my disagreement.

"What? It fits!" he mumbles. He pulls open the bag of hot dragon heart strings. I hear arguing as Wolf and I walk out of the store.


	9. Chapter 9: The Auror

The Auror

Wolf grabs the fabric of my shirt near the stomach and pulls me behind him. I peek around him. The detective from my grandmother's house leans on Wolf's motorcycle.

"Get off my bike!" Wolf warns.

"A Harley Davidson Fatboy. Very... Arnold Schwarzenegger!" The detective laughs.

"Get off my bike, Punk!" Wolf repeats his warning.

"Sorry, didn't mean to offend." The detective lies. He steps away from the bike, allowing me and Wolf to mount.

"My name is Dennis Creevey. Auror, from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"What's an Auror?" I interrupt.

"An Odor?" Wolf corrects me.

"I prefer Auror, if you don't mind." The detective looks my direction. " An Auror, is the wizarding world's police force. Special Operations. Major Investigation Unit…" He continues to brag. I am more confused than impressed. "We stop people from performing Dark Magic. Protecting both Muggles and Wizards alike."

"He's an Odor. An awful smell that comes from the Magical Congress." Wolf interjects.

"Ministry of Magic!" This time, the detective corrects Wolf. "Your group of bandits is famous even in Great Britain. The smuggling of magical goods means your mate is looking at extradition. Possibly a stay in Azkaban."

"Don't say any! We don't talk to Odors."

"Maybe you can help me." The wizarding detective tilts his head towards me. "See, I'm looking for a wand. There seems to be one missing. It belonged to a Dirk Sage. I believe he is your father. He wasn't arrested with one."

"We," Wolf emphasizes, "can't help you."

The detective redirects his attention to Wolf. "But you are his best mate! He is... how do you Americans phrase it? Your road dog!"

"If you need a wand go buy one." Wolf suggests.

"You're right! I am in need of a good wand. Do you know of any good wandmakers. Maybe one that sells to convicted wizards, or maybe sells to someone not in possession of a wand license?"

Wolf acts stumped. "Nope. Check the phonebook."

"Blimey...that's a shame. Guess I'll just have to keep looking." The Auror smirks. "Good day!"

Smoke blasts out the exhaust of Wolf's motorcycle before the Auror's mouth closes. We speed away.


	10. Chapter 10: Lluagor

Lluagor

The vivid blue and green hues of Detroit's riverfront make the congested traffic of vessels appear calm. I envy strangers wading in inflatables next to three storied yachts. Cargo ships honk thunderous horns at boaters in their lane. Brightly colored kayakers paddle close to the shallow shorelines of the forested islands. Jet-skis swerve to carve white zigzag lines in the surf, while sailboats smoothly glide in open waters with the breeze. I witness angry fishermen swearing at the speedboats passing by.

Wolf parks his motorcycle into a lot with broken grey asphalt. The lot belongs to a park that corners the river and a canal. I lug the hulky backpack with one arm, while following Wolf to an old evergreen tree. I wince at the names of my parents carved into the bark. I take out my father's dagger to draw a plus sign with my name under theirs. I circle their names and mine with a heart. The ridged lines pulse green then slowly fade.

Wolf extends his arm behind the tree, close to the roots. He tugs until one final yank produces a boat with a small motor and rudder. He slides the boat down the small sandy bank to the canal. I notice etched on the front is the name, Lluagor; the horse of Caradoc. My mind drifts. The bright summer day is replaced with a grey winter sky. My current reality is switches to confront a once forgotten memory.

...

 _My father drags the blade of his dagger into the boat. He chisels the letter L. I divert my attention to something tickling my feet. I glance down to two small snakes swim figure eights between my stubby legs. I giggle and splash water while sitting on the bank of the canal._

" _Cara! Come on. We'll bring them with us." Dirk Sage unscrews the lit of a mason he then places into the water. "Ssss" He rolls his tongue into a hiss. The two small snakes wiggle their tail into the jar. I clap my hands to see my father holding up the jar with the snakes spinning inside. He places the mason jar into the boat. His hands grab my hips and lifts my body into the boat before giving the boat a push and leaping inside himself._

...

"Cara!" Wolf howlers my name. I wake to stare at Wolf beside my father's boat. "Come on! Get in the boat!"

I swing the backpack into the wooden hull. I hop onto the bench inside. Wolf ignites the engine. The boat cast a shadow over the water. The belly of the boat does not touch the river. I brace after feeling a jolt. We fly into traffic.


	11. Chapter 11: Peche Island

Peche Island

Wolf point to a small island that borders the river and a lake. "Peche Island!" We coast to a halt after Wolf stops the motor attached to the boat.

"Let me see my glasses." Wolf holds out his hand. He gives the shades back to me. "There! Look up at that cloud."

I return Wolf's sunglasses to my face. I see a something soaring in the clouds in the distance. It is too far away recognize.

Wolf restarts the motor of the boat. The boat hovers over the shallow waters of the island's canals. Tree canopies shield us from the sun. Light peeks through the fluttering leaves. I cherish every gust of wind that relieves my skin of the summer heat.

"Where are we going?" I demand.

"Stop talking I can't hear." Wolf hushes me.

"What are you trying to hear?" Wolf gives me a hard glare. "Is the Auror following us?"

"He won't follow us here." Wolf laughs.

I raise my eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Wait!" Wolf whispers.

Wolf docks the boat. I gladly leave the heavy backpack in the bottom of the boat's hull. We walk up the muddy ledge to a grassy clearing. I freeze at the sight of four white horses with wings drink from a canal. Their narrow bodies reflect the rainbow as they flex their muscular shoulders. The largest horse's wide nostrils flare as its head jolts up. Its intelligent almond shaped eyes stare at us. It's skinny legs stomps the ground as a warning. Wolf salutes. The horse's mousey looking ears relax. Its long thin tail wags. It stretches one of its pointy wing out, then bends it so the long feathers touch its head. I wonder how Wolf knows the location of the horse without his glasses. I mimic Wolf's gestures. A nudge from behind forces me to arch my back. I turn to see a baby horse. His small bent wing doesn't reach his nose. His black and silver coat shines in the light as he playfully jumps around. The remaining three horses salute before trotting closer to Wolf and I.

"Cara, I introduce to you Zee, Euro, Nori, and Bo. Named after the four winds. They're Mastorian Winged official mascot of the winged horsemen, because they have no masters. Oh...and the foal is Cygnus, or Cyg. Named for his black coat."

Wolf digs into the pocket of his jacket to find the whiskey and cup. Each horse stands patient as Wolf pours out shots. The whiskey calms the energetic baby horse. Once each horse receives a taste, he reaches back into his pocket to locate the cigar. Wolf clutches the cigar between his lips as he searches for matches. He pulls out the ultraviolet mason jar after lighting the cigar. I stare as Wolf rips the lit end of the cigar before dropping the smoking tip into the jar. He stretches one of Cygnus' wings. Cygnus is too friendly to protest. Wolf turns to me after he plucks a feather. "For your core. Feathers grow back faster on younger horses." He drops the feather into the smoking jar before tightening the lid. "Time to go" I watch Wolf place the mason jar into his jacket while walking towards the boat. I rush behind him. A few of the horses flap their wings as to say goodbye.


	12. Chapter 12: ButterBeer

ButterBeer

The oranges and pinks of the sunset flood the blue sky. The rush of traffic is clear. Most boaters head to port to avoid the Coast Guard's fine for being on the water past curfew. Wolf pauses the engine to watch the sunset. He grabs the strap of my backpack, and unzips the main compartment. He lifts the box of ButterBeer out of the bag. The glass of the bottles clink onto the wooden boards of the boat. Wolf flicks the cap off the top of the bottle with his thumb. He hands me the open bottle. "Here! Try this!" He smiles.

I tilt back the glass bottle so the the rim meets my lips. The smooth taste of the ButterBeer warms my body from the inside. The feeling starts in my stomach, then floats to my head and spreads to the tips of my fingers. The ButterBeer gives me the courage to ask Wolf a question.

"Why didn't dad tell me he's a wizard? Or that I'm a wizard? Or that mom was a witch?" I blurt out.

Wolf releases a long sigh. "Because being a wizard in America is dangerous! The Wizarding World has always had to hide from the No-maj World. And our family of outcast has to hide from other wizards. You were supposed to have a normal childhood. Sorry it didn't turn out that way...things got complicated fast."

I reach inside my leather jacket to examine the faded picture of my broken family. I flip the photograph, to see if a date will tell me the last time my family was whole. I discover a list of names instead of a date. More branches to add to a mysterious family tree. I stuff the photo and the family I will never meet back into the inner sleeve of my jacket. I close my eyes to flush water of my emotions out before I ask Wolf another question. "Are you ashamed of being a wizard?"

Wolf smiles, "today's my birthday. I meet both of your parents at Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Your father stole my first ButterBeer from the school kitchens as a birthday present. We got detention. It was worth it."

"Did you like Ilvermorny? How come you never talk about it?" I ask.

Wolf doesn't answer my questions. He commands, " finish your ButterBeer. We have to drop off your core so the Wandmaker can finish your wand before you head to school."

I rely on the ButterBeer to melt away my fear of the new world I am forced navigate. My watery eyes see the evergreen tree in the distance. The green glow of the needles guides our boat towards land. The illuminated shape of the heart in the bark acts as beacon.


	13. Chapter 13: The Death Eater

The Death Eater

I enter the interior of the Carriage House. I once again walk to the dapper looking man standing behind the counter. The winged horse feather snuggly presses against the fabric of my pocket. The Wandmaker is rearranging large items that sit on the counter. He glances up to address me.

"Welcome back Problem Child!" The wandmaker smiles.

I accept my new name. "Hi. I have a core. Can you…"

Beeping car horns interrupt my question. The headlights on the cars flash. Windshield wipers screech across the dry glass. I am unsure of what is happening.

"Intruder Charm. More packages?" The Wandmaker sounds confused. "The delivery man must have come back."

The Wandmaker raises his wand. He swirls the wand to restore the garage to silence. He blurts out, "Accio!" while motioning the wand towards the door and jerking his wrist. I duck. A large package soars above my head and falls onto the counter.

"Its northern white ash! Rare and almost extinct!" He sounds excited.

"More pretty sticks." I shrug. 

"Muggles and their packaging." The Wandmaker struggles to rip the rope holding the wood together. 

"Here! Use my knife." I pull my father's dagger from my boot. 

"Uh!" The Wandmaker lets out a gasp. He raises his arms in the air up showing his hands. "10 inches, basilisk horn core, snakewood" 

"What?" I stand confused. 

"Not all wands are sticks!" He explains.

I am still confused. "My father's dagger is a wand?"

"Your grandfather's dagger is a wand! Give it a flick. But over there." He cautions.

The Wandmaker points one hand away from the counter. I wave the dagger. The result is disappointing. Its cracks and lets out a spark. I use my whole arm to wave it again. All the flames in the lanterns smolder out. The moon's glow is the only light.

"Sorry!" I am unable to see the Wandmaker's reaction in the darkness.

"Lumos" The wandmaker squeezes a wand with light shining from the tip. His face has a blank expression as he stares past me. I turn my head to see a figure in a black hooded cloak and a silver mask stands over me.

"Sylvester Ollivander!" The figure yells.

"Is that your real name?" I am puzzled. "What about the Curse?"

Both the Wandmaker and the figure ignore my questions. The figure reveals a wand from under its cloak.

"I found you!" The masked figure sings. "You tried to hide, but I found you! Where is he Wandmaker?" The deep male voice scares me.

I hear a loud pop. The Wandmaker disappears. The figure and I stand alone.

"How'd he do that?" I stand impressed.

The figure thrusts the wand in my direction. A bolt of light punches me in the chest. My body drops to the ground. My head hits the counter with a thud. I hear another pop. I lift my throbbing head up to see the Wandmaker reappear behind the figure.

The Wandmaker jabs his wand. The figure waves his hand, easily redirecting the bolt away from his black cloak. He jerks his wand up, catapulting the Wandmaker to the ceiling. The legs of the Wandmaker twitch in the moonlight. As the figure snaps his wand down, the Wandmaker body slams to the floor.

"As talented as you are Ollivander, you are not a fighter. Don't be difficult like your father! Where is he?" He orders.

The figure points his wand down. The Wandmaker's unnaturally twisting fingers release his wand onto the floor.

"I won't ask a again! Where is he?" The figure threatens.

I hear a flick. The Wandmaker's answer is interrupted by the smell smoke. I look to see Wolf is illuminated silhouette in the door frame. A cigar hangs from his lips. He holds in one hand, a glass bottle with a neon blue liquid.

The figure flicks a bolt of light from the wand in his hand. Wolf side steps as the bolt wizzes past his head. He hurls the bottle at the figure's feet. I see the glass crack. A blue fire engulfs the black cloth of cloak. The figure dances out of the robes before the flame touches his skin. From the blue flames emerges a man. Wolf sprints towards him. He tackles him, forcing the man to lose his wand. Wolf slides into the counter next to me. The impact knocks him unconscious.

The man slowly stumbles to his feet. He looks down to the sleeping Wolf and me. I whip my grandfather's dagger towards his head. The man expertly dodges it. I panic when I see the dagger misses. It is lodged in the brick wall behind the snake aquarium.

I wail out a cry for help. "Someone! Help!"

"Just like your disgraceful blood traitor mother. Protecting some fifty Mugblood." The man's deep voice condemns.

As the man lifts his knee to step towards me, something stops him. I am relieved to watch two snakes crawl around his legs. The two snakes hiss as they tangle around the man's body. "Ssss! We will help you!"

The man grits his teeth and stares at me. I hear the sound of fingers snapping. The flames of the lanterns are reignited. The Auror from earlier now stands in the Carriage House.

"Gentleman! Do drop your wands! Auror Dennis Creevey, with the authority given to me by the Ministry of Magic, incorporation with the Magical Congress of the United States of America, you're under arrest. Merlin's Beard!" The Auror lets out a gasp. He points a wand at the stranger.

"Incarcerous. Jugson! I must notify the Ministry. The Death Eaters have escaped to America!"


	14. Chapter 14: The Sports Car

The Sports Car

The Carriage House is full of people carrying wands. Their suits sway as they rush past me. I sit with my back touching the counter. I am glad to be forgotten about. The man, that attacked the Wandmaker and Wolf, has arms wrapped up by rope. He sits on the brown leather couch in the waiting area. Six men guard the armrests. The mumbles of Aurors indicate he is important. Both bandages and rope wrap around the Wandmaker's hands. He walks out of the garage with an Auror holding his elbow. Wolf lays on a stretcher hovering above the floor. He is alive but barely conscious. I hope today is a birthday he forgets.

With my head tilted down, the polished shoes of a man stops in front of me. I look up to see the Auror from earlier smiling at me. "Hello Cara. Remember me? Auror Creevey!" He states proudly. "Lucas is on his way to hospital, before being questioned by another Auror. Come! I drive you home."

I shuffle my feet behind Auror Creevey. He stops to stare at the empty snake aquarium. He notices the dagger lodged in the wall behind. Creevey grabs the handle and the gold handguard turns to dull steel. He tugs, but gives up when the dagger refuses the budge. He continues to the metal front door of the Carriage House. I swivel my head side to side, before seizing the dagger. The handguard returns to gold as I slide the dagger out wall. I stuff the blade into my boot. I jog to catch up.

I follow the Auror to the dingy asphalt outside. His open hand motions to a two door sports car. I recognize the race flag logo and the curvy hood. I assume the detective car from earlier was a disguise. I plop my butt onto black leather seats. He closes his door and sings, "little red Corvette, baby you're way too fast! Little red Corvette, oooh...love that's gonna last!" 

"Why are you singing like that? That's not how the song goes!" 

"Yes it is. I'm muggleborn. I know the song." Auror Creevey turns the key to start the engine.

"What's a muggle?" I ask as we roll off.

"Oh right! In America you have nomajs. In the U.K. we call them muggles. Non magical people. People that can't perform magic. They're called nomajs. Not everyone fancies muggles. But some of the best wizards are muggleborn." 

"If your born non magical then how do you do magic?" I ask.

"Good question! No one knows. A bit of a mystery, really. What about your father? Do you know anything about his wand?" Creevey tries to for information again.

"No. Why is his wand important?" I remember what Wolf says about talking to police.

"Oh. No reason, I suppose. Wands don't work without their wizard anyway. So... did the Death Eater say anything to you? The man with the dark hair. The one that wasn't Sylvester Ollivander. Did he mention anything?" He asks while braking at an intersection. A stay dog runs in front of the car's bright headlights. He swerves to avoid as the dog as it barks and bites at the driver side window. "Blimey! What a dangerous city Detroit is! So...did the Death eater say anything?" He pries.

"No. Did you arrest my father?" I answer with a question, like Wolf does me.

"No. The Americans did that. No, I only questioned him afterwards. You know the Death Eaters are a very dangerous lot. Well... I guess you don't know. You're too young to remember the war. The Death Eaters are the worst kind of people. One even murdered my brother. I miss him very much. And it's my goal to make sure every Death Eater that survived the war, goes to Azkaban. It's very important to honor the dead." He looks towards the road with a somber expression.

"My mother's dead. How come no one honors her?" I painfully mumble.

"Who told you that? Cara, your mother isn't dead. She's missing." He claims. 

"So why does everyone say she's dead?" I demand. 

"Who's everyone? Your mother went missing during the war. Which was unusual because she was American. Loads of people went missing during the war. But, most people that went missing have never been seen, or heard from. Even after the war ended. People just assume the worse." He cautions.

Creevey rolls the car to a stop in front of my grandmother's house. "Say! I might be able to get you a visit with your father. How about that?" Creevey proposes.

"Thanks." I yell before exiting the corvette. I show respect to the car by gently pushing the door close. To scratch the paint of his beautiful ride would be rude. I sprint up the concrete step to the screen door. I don't want to be given favors from a cop, even if it is to visit my father.


End file.
